"I—I thought," said Adrienne, blushing, and then brimming over with laughter,—"I thought she was your elder sister."
The children greeted her speech with such peals of laughter that the sadness connected with Nessa was effectually dispersed, and no further hesitation was entertained as to Adrienne's name. Nothing could she be now but "Nessa";—"Our elder sister Nessa," as Murtagh half-impudently, half-admiringly called her.
"And it's perfect nonsense, Rosie," said Murtagh, "to say that the other Nessa wasn't like her. Her hair was darker, and so were her eyes; but there was a sort of likeness about them all the same,—a sort of golden look in their faces; wasn't there, Winnie?"
"How silly you are, Murtagh!" replied Rosie, contemptuously, "just as if a dog could be like a real grown-up person."
"Yes, they can," replied Murtagh; "and I heard papa saying one day to a gentleman at one of the big dinner-parties, that everybody has a sort of a likeness to some animal. There!"
"Then if they have, you're like a little black monkey," replied Rosie, hotly and inconsequently; "but it's nonsense all the same, silly nonsense, to say that a little brown dog out on the road is like this Nessa!"
"But it isn't nonsense, Rosie, when I see—" began Murtagh.
Rosie contemptuously turned her back upon him, and Winnie remarked quietly:
"It's no use arguing with Rosie, you know, Myrrh."
Murtagh paid no attention, but followed Rosie, exclaiming eagerly: "Can't you understand if I see a likeness—" Rosie never listened to what her opponent said. She pushed him away so violently that he lost his balance and fell over little Ellie, who was sitting upon the floor. The child began to scream; Adrienne sprang forward to pick her up; in the midst of the confusion the door opened, and Peggy's voice made itself heard, saying, "Whisht, Miss Ellie; get up, Mr. Murtagh, dear; here's Mr. Plunkett."